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Letters to God
Copyright © 2010 by Patrick Doughtie and John Perry
Doughtie, Patrick –
Letters to God : from the major motion picture / Patrick Doughtie and John
Perry.
p. cm.
Summary: Inspired by the major motion picture Letters to God, this novel is
for readers eager to read more of this inspiring story. Tyler, a nine-year-old boy,
is stricken with incurable brain cancer and begins to write letters to God. He
turns his suffering into spiritual lessons for his widowed mother, his embittered
adolescent brother, and a troubled postman. This story of hope will help
readers from all walks work toward greater understanding of God’s presence
and care.
ISBN 978-0-310-32765-3 (softcover)
1. Brain — Cancer — Patients — Fiction. 2. Epistolary fiction. I. Perry, John,
1952 – II. Title.
PS3604.O923L48 2010
813'.6 — dc22 2009051237
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible,
New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used
by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers printed in this
book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an
endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites
and numbers for the life of this book.
Published in association with the literary agency of Wolgemuth & Associates, Inc.
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 /DCI/ 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4
Patrick
what he’d written, and smiled, looking at his wife and wishing
she’d open her eyes and look back. He loved her eyes.
As he started writing again, he heard little feet scurrying
down the hall and a voice chirping, “Rise and shine! Rise and
shine!”
“Hey, Tiger,” Patrick said.
“Hey, Dad,” Tyler Doherty answered from the bedroom door-
way, then looked at the lump in the bed. “Hey, Mom! Time to
get up!”
The lump rustled only a little. “Not yet, sweetie. Mommy
needs more sleep.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“Don’t worry, Ty,” the lump answered groggily. “You won’t
starve to death. Mommy’ll be up in a minute.”
Ty pattered over to the desk in the corner where his father
sat and looked out through the blinds. The sun rising behind the
big moss-covered live oaks that lined the street gave them long,
crisp shadows on the pavement. Ty liked watching the sun come
up. He saw people walking their dogs on the sidewalk and a car
backing out of the driveway in front of a blue house across the
way. A few doors down, his friend Samantha’s dad came out to
get the paper. Turning to look at his dad, Ty was at eye level with
the open notebook.
“Whatcha doing, Daddy?”
“Writing.”
“Writing what?”
“I’m writing a letter to God.”
“Wow!” Ty was impressed. “Will he write you back?”
How, at six thirty in the morning, could he explain this to a
three-year-old, even a very sharp three-year-old?
“Well, no . . . I mean, yes, in a way, Son.”
picture! Ty grabbed the pencil and made a circle beside two stick
figures, one larger than the other; it was him and his dad and the
sunrise. Hearing the shower shut off, he dropped the pencil in the
middle of the notebook and ran giggling from the room.
Patrick appeared wrapped in a bathrobe, briskly rubbing his
wet hair with a towel. He was an inch or so over six feet, though
his muscular shoulders and athletic posture made him seem even
taller. Physical labor had kept his body lean, only a few pounds
heavier than his playing weight a dozen years ago on the way to
a baseball scholarship. His freshly shaven face was lightly lined,
tanned and ruddy from years of working outdoors, the deep blue
eyes framed by thick dark hair. Ben had his hair and eyes. Ty was
brown-eyed and blond like his mother.
Patrick looked toward the sound of giggles and footsteps in
the hall, then at the desk. Picking up his notebook, he saw the
scribbles on top of that morning’s letter. His frown of irritation
changed to a wide grin as he read the last sentence he’d written:
“And Lord, all I ask is for a little sunshine today, something to
make it a little better than yesterday.” There his sunshine was,
taking up nearly the whole page.
“Thank you, Lord,” he said, looking upward. “I haven’t even
left the house yet this morning, and you’ve already answered my
prayer.”
As he headed for the kitchen a few minutes later, the smell
of cinnamon toast — the boys’ favorite — met him on the stairs.
The Doherty home was the airy, rambling kind of old house that
some people called “four square,” with a bedroom upstairs in each
corner and a big stair hall in the middle. The high ceilings helped
keep it cool during the Orlando summers, and big windows let
in lots of light in the wintertime. Patrick was dressed for “the
office” — jeans, a work shirt, heavy boots, and a baseball cap, to
which he would shortly add a tool belt and nail apron. His strong,
calloused hands came not from pushing papers behind a desk but
from long days as a carpenter, carrying, cutting, measuring, and
fitting lumber, swinging a sixteen-ounce hammer, and climbing
around construction sites.
Passing by Ben and Ty at the breakfast table, he reached for
a mug of steaming coffee waiting on the counter. Expertly jug-
gling the mug, he took a Thermos and lunchbox from Maddy’s
outstretched hands, gave her a kiss on the lips, and headed for
the door.
“Hey, Dad,” Ben hollered after him, “you’re gonna make it to
my football game today, right?”
Patrick stopped in his tracks and cut his eyes over to Maddy.
Behind the children and out of their sight, she held up an out-
stretched palm, wiggling all five fingers.
“Uh, yeah. It starts at five, right?”
“Right!” Ben said, grinning.
“Wouldn’t miss it!”
Maddy flagged for his attention. “You don’t have to work
tonight?”
“I’ll be there.” He shot her a look that said, “Don’t you worry
about it; I’ll take care of things,” then a quick smile in Ben’s direc-
tion as he continued out the door. “I love you guys.”
“I love you too,” the chorus answered, and he was gone. They
heard his truck start then watched him drive across in front of
the house and out of sight.
He hadn’t wanted that second job working nights for a janito-
rial service. It took him away from supper time and evenings with
his family, and what little time he was home he felt bushed. But
he didn’t see any choice. Even though new homes were going up
all over south Florida and the carpentry business was booming,
≈
Ben popped his head up out of the huddle of eleven- and
twelve-year-olds and scanned the bleachers. He said he’d be here.
He looked at his mother. As Ty jumped up and down beside her,
she met his gaze with a big thumbs-up. She hoped Patrick would
make the game, but it was getting late.
≈
From her seat in the front row of bleachers, Maddy spotted
her husband and caught his exchange with Ben. Ty saw him too,
and before Maddy could grab him he darted off to greet him.
Maddy followed Ty with her eyes as he scurried to his father,
clutching him around the knees. Patrick hoisted his son into the
air and hugged him close. Maddy could hear them both laughing
even from where she sat. Patrick waved at her, then, with Ty in
his arms, picked his way back to where she was sitting.
As the three of them took their places, Maddy squeezed Pat-
rick’s arm. “I’m so glad you got here.” Her wavy dark blonde hair
blew in the breeze and the sun brought out the freckles on her
nose. Every time Patrick saw her, he thought she was more beau-
tiful than the time before. He especially liked that mischievous
upturn at the corners of her mouth.
“Me too,” Patrick answered. “I wouldn’t have missed it, but I
can’t stay long.”
She saw the weariness in his eyes. Working two jobs was such
a drain on him. “Why don’t you call in and say you’ll be a little
late tonight?”
“I’d love to,” he sighed. “But I can’t. You know that.”
“I know.”
The three of them watched the rest of the second quarter
together, Patrick and Maddy holding hands and Ty on his dad’s
lap. As the clock ran out and the whistle sounded, Patrick looked
at his watch. He sat Ty on the seat beside him and stood up.
“Tell Ben I love him and that he played an awesome game.
Tell him that run was fantastic.” As Ben jogged toward the side-
line, he saw his father leaving. Catching his eye, he gave him a
thumbs-up and pointed to the sky. Patrick signaled back.
“Daddy, I want to go with you,” Tyler said, grabbing him
around the legs. “Pleeeease?”
“Not this time, Tiger, but some day soon. I promise you I
could use the help.” He mussed Tyler’s hair, then put his arm
around Maddy’s shoulder and pulled her to him. “Good-bye,
love,” he said. “See you tonight.” He gave her a peck on the lips,
disappeared into the halftime crowd, and was gone.
wheel with a scream. His legs were caught under the dashboard,
which was jammed up against his chest. Other than the pain, he
had no feeling anywhere. There was blood but he couldn’t tell
where it came from.
Drifting in and out, Patrick didn’t know how long he dan-
gled there before he heard voices and saw lights. A face appeared
through a gap in the wreckage. “Don’t worry,” it said, “we’ll get
you out. You’re going to be all right.” He saw a DayGlo green coat
and a fireman’s hat.
“Call Maddy, please, call my wife,” Patrick managed to say.
He felt something sticky on his arms. Lifting them to his face, he
could see by the rescue lights that they were covered in blood.
He closed his eyes and the light went away. Soon the sound went
away too.
Manslaughter
sleep, his hair spiking in every direction. She looked at him, tying
her shoes. “Where are you going?” He glanced around. “Where’s
Dad?”
“Your dad’s been in an accident.” She fought to keep in con-
trol. She didn’t want to scare the boys unnecessarily. Maybe it
wasn’t all that bad. “Wake up your brother and get some shoes
on. We have to go.”
Ben rushed to Ty’s room and shook him awake. “Tyler, come
on, wake up! We have to go!”
“Leave me alone,” Ty warned. Ben stooped down over his
brother, gathered him up, and started down the hall holding him
in his arms. “I’m telling Mom!” Ty yelled. The two of them met
their mother at the top of the stairs. “Mom — !”
“It’s okay, Ty. We’re all going for a ride.”
Putting his brother down, Ben ducked into his room and
pulled on jeans and a shirt while Maddy helped Ty get dressed,
then carried him down the stairs with Ben following. They
piled into the van, pulling out onto the empty street as Maddy
reached for her cell phone. She’d have her mother meet them at
the hospital.
≈
By the time the gurney carrying Patrick Doherty came bang-
ing through the double doors of the ER, nobody who’d treated
him on the medical chopper thought he would make it. His legs
were crushed from the waist down. He had serious internal inju-
ries. Most critical was the swelling of his brain that, if it hadn’t
already killed him, would likely make him an invalid for life. Yet
somehow, miraculously, he was still hanging on.
The gurney wheeled past a second patient, the driver of the
≈
Outside, following the blue neon “Emergency” arrows, Maddy
drove up near the entrance and parked as close as she could. She
and the boys raced through the automatic doors and up to the
desk, anxious and out of breath.
“My husband’s Patrick Doherty. I got a call saying there’d
been an accident.”
“I’ll find out where he is,” a nurse behind the desk answered.
≈
Mother and daughter sat side by side at a table, untouched
cups of vending-machine coffee in front of them. The boys had
been gobbling candy bars and other junk that was usually off-
limits, courtesy of their grandmother. It was 3:30 in the morning
and the four of them waited alone. Finally the door opened and a
doctor walked slowly in. He was middle-aged, slightly overweight,
and absolutely exhausted. He wore surgical scrubs with a green
cap tied around his head and a mask pulled down around his
neck. Maddy walked toward him.
“Are you Mrs. Doherty?” the doctor asked wearily.
“Yes. How is he?”
“Would you come with me, please?” He turned and opened
the door for her. They walked back into the empty waiting room
and sat down in the first row of chairs. The doctor folded his arms
in silence, gathering his thoughts.